In The Year of Want
by northernexposure
Summary: Christmas approaches


**In The Year of Want**

**A/N**: Started this as a one-shot, and it may stay that way, although as I was writing, something popped up and surprised me at the end.

* * *

It was Malcolm who started it. "What happened to your singing?" he asked, during a scarce moment of his return when they weren't in uproar.

Ruth had tried to remember a time when belting her heart out beside a group of middle class Londoners had seemed an appropriate pastime. "I can't remember when I last sang," she said, and then amended, "Oh – yes I can. About a week before Cotterdam."

Malcolm looked aghast. "You didn't sing at all in Cyprus?"

Ruth looked down at her desk. She nudged a pen back into line. "I was a different person then," she said.

* * *

It stayed with her, though, Malcolm's hint. She didn't want to go back to St Martin's in the Field, though she knew the choir would take her easily enough. It would seem too much like going backwards, somehow. As if she'd be trying to regain a past that she found increasingly difficult to believe had ever existed in the first place.

But every now and then, she'd catch herself humming. Occasionally, words formed in the music, and once Ruth even caught herself on the cusp of a lyric. Sad songs, now, always.

About a month before Christmas, she found a church a little way out of town, in one of the parts of London that had forgotten it was a city. The street was lined with trees. Their leaves had long since dropped at the insistence of winter, but the place still felt a hundred miles from Westminster, rather than two or three. It was quiet. When she opened the door, the smell of incense kissed her cold cheeks.

It took Ruth a while to find her voice, but the others were patient, and welcoming. They didn't ask about her, but they were still warm, for which she was grateful. Out in the world, she knew she wore her sorrow like a cloak, a comforting buffer between herself and others. She hadn't yet learned to take it off. She wasn't sure she would ever want to.

Afterwards, she lit candles for George and Nico, and stood staring at their yellow flames. They guttered in the draft cast by the door as the singers left, one by one.

"Such a wonderful addition to our little group," the vicar said softly, at her shoulder. "I do so hope you'll come again."

Ruth tore her eyes from the tiny double inferno in front of her. She sought for a smile, but they all eluded her. "I'd like that," she said.

He nodded, shrewdly taking in the candles and her melancholy. "I have a few things to do before I lock up," he told her. "Take as long as you like."

She should have thanked him, Ruth thought, afterwards, but he'd faded away into the shadows before she'd realised he had gone.

Apart from Ros's funeral, it had been three years since Ruth had set foot in a church. It had been Christmas then, too, the first she'd spent with George and Nico. She was trying to make her mark in that strange new life, trying to bring something honestly of herself to their fledgling triumvirate. She'd persuaded George that they should take Nico to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. She'd wanted to recreate the sense of magic she'd experienced as a girl, going with her mother. The intoxicating puffs of incense, the candles, the voices. Yes, even the words.

George had agreed, generously hiding his bemusement. Nico had been excited at the prospect of a new experience. Of course, on Cyprus there was no winter snow, no need for heavy boots and coats and scarves, of watching their step on treacherous paths. They walked to church amid balm and birdsong, but Ruth didn't care. Especially when, on the way and chattering happily, Nico had curled his fingers around hers for the first time.

The service had been beautiful, but long. Nico did not fidget, but he did grow uncomfortable, seated between them on the carved oak pew. Ruth had felt him wriggling against her, and realised he was trying to crawl onto her lap. She'd opened her arms and he'd furled himself between them, legs finally settling to dangle over hers. A few minutes later, he was fast asleep, head beneath her chin, hair tickling her nose.

Ruth had looked across at George, and in his smile she had seen a future. Having Nico asleep against her chest made it impossible to sing, but it hadn't mattered. The magic she had been seeking had quite literally fallen into her lap.

One of the candles gasped a last flicker of light and went out. Ruth blinked, watching the final curl of smoke drift skywards until it was lost among the eves of the church. With it went the joy of that memory, floating, ghost-like, until it was out of sight in the darkness.

Outside, it had begun to snow. Ruth stopped beside the church gate, raising her face to the night sky. It wouldn't lay, it was too soft and falling too slowly. But with the flakes came silence, like a celestial mantel sinking to meet the firmament.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Wiping snow from her eyes, Ruth reached for it. It was flashing, a reminder of a message. She'd put it on silent before she'd entered the church – someone must have called her during choir practice. She dialled her voicemail.

It was Harry. His voice poured into her ear, soft and low. She clenched the hand that was not clutching the phone. _Harry_. Just another patch in the tattered garment of her life.

"_Ruth… it's – it's me, Harry. I know it's late, I'm sorry. I'm not even really sure why I called. I think…"_ He cleared his throat. _"I think I just wanted to hear your voice." _He laughed slightly, a faint vibration she could feel as if it were happening against her skin_. "I know you probably don't want to hear that. Or me, Or… Sorry. I'm sorry. Look, forget I called. Have a good evening. See you at work."_

The message ended as he rang off. Ruth pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it, her heart thumping painfully. She wondered if he'd been drinking. He must have been, surely, to leave such a message.

She thought about the church, the brief moment of peace she had experienced as she stared at the candles, burning down. The memory of George and Nico, slipping through her fingers like smoke. And she did not call him back.

[END]


End file.
